


At Last

by Z A Dusk (snakeandmoon)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Book Omens, Christmas, Crowley Cooks (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Great Good Omens Snake-Off, M/M, Marriage Proposal, No beta we fall like Crowley, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:13:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23193763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk
Summary: Crowley is determined to cook for Aziraphale - even if a sudden change of form makes it a little more challenging than anticpated.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 111





	At Last

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever book Omens fic! I've been wanting to write the book boys for a while. I don't know them as well as the show boys, but I had fun!

Aziraphale was feeling rather disgruntled as he trudged home. He loved all seasons. Of course he did. He was an angel. But did winter have to be quite so grim? He’d had to expend so many minor miracles to save himself getting splashed by passing vehicles that it really was just as well he didn’t have official duties these days. Upstairs would surely have had something to say, but really, if you’re not going to manifest clothes out of raw firmament, a little miracle to protect them must surely be allowed. The so-called festive season was entirely too busy and filled with forced jollity for his liking. And that was before you even got to all the people wanting to buy books.

His heart brightened as he came in sight of his beloved bookshop. Even from the outside it had a defiantly dusty air, as if it steadfastly refused to be part of the garish LED-lit spectacle of Christmas in London. Quite like its owner. But there was a soft glow from the windows, and the interior held the promise of very good wine, Mozart on the gramophone, and a delightful first edition of Great Expectations to settle down with. His fingers tingled at the thought of the gilt tooling and hand marbled end papers.

Perhaps he’d call Crowley. The demon was always busy at this time of year. He didn’t need to tempt anyone this year of course, but old habits died hard, and the festive season offered such ample opportunity for spreading discord. Aziraphale sometimes suspected it was a mere ruse to hide the fact that Crowley secretly loved anything to do with the holiday. Just that very morning he’d come downstairs to find a foot tall fake tree that not only twinkled with gaudy lights, but played tinny carols, standing shamelessly in the foyer of his shop. He’d grit his teeth and ignored it. If it pleased Crowley, well, he could compromise a little for once.

Besides, it might lower the tone of the shop and frighten away a few customers. Much easier than making the place smell like several species of mould were creating a new designer fragrance.

Aziraphale slipped into the shop, long since closed to customers despite it being only 6:00 PM, and closed the door firmly just in case anyone saw him enter and got the impression he was still open for business. Hanging his tweed coat carefully on the nearby coat rack, he swapped his deep tan brogues for his favourite lined suede slippers and smiled at the thought of a nice mug of cocoa. Perhaps with cinnamon and nutmeg, and a hearty slice of stollen. Some festive traditions he was very firmly behind.

The first thing he heard was a clattering sound from the tiny kitchen at the back of the shop. The second was a sibilant, and very frustrated, “oh blessssss it all to Heaven and back twice!”

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale quickly stowed his shopping under a table. They hadn’t discussed whether to give gifts and in general Aziraphale eschewed the commercial madness of the season, but this one particular suit had just seemed made for Crowley. Probably because he’d had it made for Crowley. Well, the dear boy had quite ruined his favourite one driving the burning Bentley. Of course he could miracle himself as many as he liked to replace it, but still. He deserved to feel looked after.

“In here, Angel.”

Aziraphale walked into his kitchen and was greeted by the peculiar sight of a pan of sauce simmering on the stove, while a wooden spoon stirred of its own accord, like a scene from Fantasia. There was flour all over the countertop, and spilled on the floor in fluffy white spots, as if someone had dropped a bucket of small clouds. The scent of burnt garlic added to the chaos and as for the Parmigiano-Reggiano, well, if the fragments scattered on the tiny prep table were anything to go by it had been spoken to rudely enough that it would likely want to register a complaint.

“Hi.”

A familiar voice said grudgingly. Aziraphale looked in the direction of the sound and found a black snake coiled around a mixing bowl, his tail wrapped around a spoon, and looking as disgruntled as it was possible for a snake to look.

“What on earth?”

Aziraphale unthinkingly reached out to scoop Crowley up, as if he was injured, earning himself an annoyed hiss.

“Sorry dear boy.” He said apologetically, placing Crowley back on the countertop. “But really, what on earth are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? Trading in stocks? I’m making you dinner.”

“As a … snake?”

“Had to shed, didn’t I? Bloody came early this year.”

A bell rang in the back of Aziraphale’s mind. Several years ago, before the antichrist was born, a drunken Crowley had confided that he had to shed his skin every year; less than a non-demonic snake, but “still enough to be a pain in my neck – and in that form I’m all neck.” It happened early every January, he said, and when it was done it took a week or so before he could change back to his favourite form.

“You could have … we could order in.” Aziraphale offered, thoroughly confused.

“Ngk,” said Crowley. “Had it all planned, didn’t I?”

“It does smell delicious. What is it?”

Aziraphale smiled, reaching to stroke Crowley’s glossy black head as if it was the most natural thing in the world. This time the demon didn’t hiss, but rubbed his head contentedly against the angel’s palm.

“S’that lobster-infused cream sauce I told you I read about. The one with tarragon and basil. Was just about to put the baguette in to bake. Bloody hard doing all this with a tail instead of hands – had to do a couple miracles but they’re less precise in this form.”

“I can see that.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at the spilled flour and scattered bits of herbs and spots of cream, but there was no malice in it. Opening the oven door, he used a tea towel to retrieve the bowl of water he found at the bottom of it, giving Crowley a quizzical look.

“Putting a bowl of water in first helps the baguette crisp up.” The snake explained, as Aziraphale picked up the home made baguette and slid it into the oven to bake. 

An hour later they were seated in the small, elegant dining room Crowley had insisted on adding to the bookshop after the failed apocalypse. “Couldn’t fit a proper dining table in that storecupboard you call a kitchen” he’d muttered, though Aziraphale could have sworn his eyes were smiling behind his dark glasses as he fussed over every detail. 

At least, Aziraphale was seated. Crowley was coiled on the table, where he mostly watched the angel eat, although he swallowed a few pieces of pasta, and made short work of a lobster claw. The dry white he’d chosen paired beautifully with the dish, and Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this content. He’d often wished Crowley felt comfortable enough to be a snake around him, but the demon had always sequestered himself during his sheds, and Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to pry. Now though, he seemed perfectly at ease, as though that divide once bridged had turned out not to be a divide at all.

The classical music on the gramophone had morphed into Etta James’ At Last as the evening progressed, and though Crowley had claimed not to know why, he’d ducked his head quickly to hide his face in his coils. The soft light from the candles and the perfume from the roses that filled the vase on the table created the perfect intimate atmosphere. Aziraphale couldn’t keep from smiling at Crowley. They’d had many clandestine dates over the centuries, but being openly in love was something he was still adjusting to.

“That was scrumptious darling, thank you.” He set his linen napkin aside and reached across the table to trail a finger softly down Crowley’s side, feeling the smooth scales. “There are boulangeries in France that are closing their doors now from sheer jealousy at your baguette baking skills.”

“Beaten by a snake. No wonder they’re closing their doors.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Quite. But I must confess myself confused, dear boy. As much as I appreciate this feast, why not just wait until you were back in your human-shaped form?”

“I said. I’d planned it. Dessert?”

“As if I would say no.”

Crowley laughed at that, a soft hissing sound that Aziraphale found uniquely soothing. The demon employed a small miracle to bring a rich chocolate raspberry torte to the table. The imprecise miracle left the plate dangerously close to the edge, and Aziraphale grabbed the edge of it quickly. As he did so, the cuff of his shirt caught the napkin folded near Crowley’s side of the table. There was a clatter as a small object dislodged itself from under the napkin, and fell to the floor.

“Gosh, sorry.” Aziraphale said, just as Crowley hissed in a panicked voice “leave it, Angel!”

Crowley would later tell Aziraphale he was rather grateful that his face was less expressive in its serpent form, as he watched the angel settle himself upright, realisation slowly dawning as he stared at the ring in his hand. A delicate band of silver and gold braided together held a unique bi-color sapphire, the two shades of blue the exact colour of his eyes and the highlights that swirled within them. 

“Meant to put that somewhere else, sorry angel, just forget you found it, alright?”

“Yes.”

Crowley stared at him.

“Yesss?”

Aziraphale could feel the huge grin spreading on his face, even as he wondered if it was possible to discorporate from sheer joy.

“Yes! Oh Crowley, of course yes.” 

Crowley somehow managed to look delighted, sliding across the table to lean up and flick his tongue gently against the tip of the angel’s nose. He delicately scooped the ring up on his tail, and carefully guided it onto Aziraphale’s finger.

“I just have one caveat for our wedding, darling.”

Aziraphale told him, laughing as he leaned down to press adoring kisses against the top of Crowley’s head.

“Whassat, Angel?”

“Let’s not have it when you’re due to shed. I can only imagine what our first dance would look like.”

Crowley laughed, a soft, sibilant noise of pure joy, as he coiled affectionately around the angel’s forearm and nuzzled against his hand.

“Anything you say, Angel.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bi-colour sapphires are apparently very rare. I think Crowley spent centuries searching for this one, then another few centuries plucking up the courage to give it to his angel.
> 
> Let me know what you think - comments are fuel for hungry authors!
> 
> Come yell about Good Omens with me on [Tumblr](http://azfell-and-his-demon.tumblr.com)!


End file.
